Compassion

Grandma Edna stares
Indefinitely at the four of us
As we greet her in the hallway
Of her nursing home --
A sort of well-appointed
Storage facility
For the unfortunate
Souls who did not die
In their houses

She is no longer the stern woman
Who raised four children,
Nearly single-handedly, while
Her husband trotted the globe;
Nor the doting matron
Who fussed over
Grandchildren and
Fretted about Christmas
Dinner

She is now Edna minus
All those experiences
Robbed of her memories
By time and her failing mind.
And to us adults, who
Have learned to fear
Death, she is a pale warning;
A blank-faced scarecrow
That sends us flying

Yet, here is my son
Carefully raising her
Arm to clasp her seatbelt
As we drive off for lunch.
And here is my daughter
Cheerfully hugging and
Kissing grandma
Before we scurry away from
Her assisted-living purgatory

That children have a greater
Capacity to love than adults
Is no revelation
And my two kids, sometimes
Still afraid of the dark, can
Still embrace their grandmother:
A frail specter who smells more than faintly
Of urine, and understands little but the
Love she is given by strangers